Beer, Hipster Watching & Other Hobbies I Enjoy

There is a time to pontificate, and a time to drink beer and people watch. With Austin City Limits kicking off here today, I'll let you guess which option I'm picking.

You know that one friend of yours who discovers every offbeat band, movie, or restaurant that no one's ever heard of until, eventually, everyone has? I'm not that friend, not even a little. Nevertheless, the painfully mainstream AH and I are off to pretend to enjoy obscure music and make fun of hipsters, as made possible by the kind Anonymous Grandmother coming to babysit for the weekend.

I snapped this on my morning stroll with Master P; you should have seen the Parenting Police looks of disdain from people who assumed I was taking him to ACL. My Icy Glare of Judgment has nothing on the PP.

I'll be over in the Twitterverse for the next couple of days complaining about These Kids Nowadays and how I can't hold my liquor anymore. Merry weekend.

The (Not-So-) New Girl In Town ...

It would really help if I were a nudist.

Well, not really, but (a) I just wanted to see if you were awake and (b) it would be nice to be more comfortable in my own skin (if not actually baring skin) when it comes to certain things. I'm coming up on two years of living in Austin, and many important pieces of my life - marriage, work, and baby-on-board - have fallen into place just so, more or less just as Miss Type A Minus here would have planned. I'm a fortunate one, even if I'm hesitant to drop my patented Icy Cool Demeanor enough to often admit it.

In the area of making new friends, however, things have admittedly not exactly gone along with my hopes. I know what you're thinking - how could anyone like me not be besieged by one social invitation after another?

This is entirely my fault, of course. My long history as a Recovering Introvert clearly indicates I'm nothing if not (a) lazy; (b) nearly as shy as lazy, if not quite; (c) an aficionado of solitary pursuits - unless anyone knows of a Book Reading Twittering Cookie Dough Eating Club*?; and (d) overly fond of alphabetized lists. Combine this list with my utterly solitary, lawyerly job in a land far, far away, and it just hasn't been as easy as I'd imagined to meet new people, amiable as Austin is. Coming from towns in which I'd either grown up or had other organic social introductions, I'm also finding myself a bit adrift on just how to go about this.

*If not, anyone want to start this totally awesome sounding group with me?

Fear not, dolls - lest you think I'm a shut-in, I have quite accidentally met a terrific friend or three here. I'm also taking steps to overcome my natural laziness and regularly do stuff that I both like and involves, um, other people, with the hope that repeated exposure might wear down their defenses. Yoga. Church. Junior League. Researching the Smug Mummy groups I can join once Grand Master P arrives. All this without the kind, socially lubricating assistance of alcohol, I might add.

So until I happen upon a few more innocents and trick them into hanging out with me - or in a couple of months when I can start imbibing again, whichever comes first - well, frankly, I'm struggling to be patient. Much of my 2 years here has been wonderful, and this piece will eventually fall into place as well. Without my having to resort to the whole nudist thing, I hasten to add.

Botox, Barbeque, and My Version of a Janet Jackson Moment

The Anonymous Husband & I attended a fancy ranch party this weekend, a scene reminiscent of a Henry James novel except with more Botox barbeque. Texas glitterati aside, the celebrants included personal A-list types such as my boss and my in-laws.  Feeling much like the kid at the grown-up's table at this particular event, I resolved to both appear and act on my very best behavior.

*For the non-Texans here, "fancy ranch" is not an oxymoron.  Think jeans, jewels, and boots and cosmetic surgery, but the secretly expensive version of same.

Alas, my best behavior did not include running on time pre-party, so I threw on what I hoped to be summery, A-list appropriate ranch attire - white jeans, wedge espadrilles, and a lemon-yellow sleeveless tunic made by a certain Palm Beach designer synonymous with "appropriate" - without a second glance in the mirror.  

The AH & I then scooted away in the Lawyermobile to collect a few fellow partygoers.  When we picked them up, I noticed a few of the male guests looking oddly at me, but I imagined this was symptomatic of my decidedly Junior Varsity status at this party & didn't think too much of it.  However, when we arrived at the party and some other men quickly glanced in my, er, chesticles region, then looked away, I knew something was amiss.  

Armed with a vodka soda and a growing sense of foreboding, I skulked into one of the approximately 500 fancy ranch restrooms only to behold . . . the lovely "flesh-toned" bra I'd just purchased, winking at me from under this seemingly opaque and tasteful tunic.  

Readers, there comes a time in every woman's life where she must make a decision.  When finding yourself in such a predicament, you can either hide in the corner, mortified, and pray that no one notices you for the next 5 hours. Or you can do as I did, figuring that if you must be at a party full of VIPs for the next while, you may as well do so in the company of your kind friend, Vodka, and brazenly sidle up to the poolside bar in broad daylight as if nothing is amiss, only pausing occasionally to strategically align your handbag over your "second base" area.

Upon being grilled about the situation, the AH snickered & reassured me that the problem wasn't quite as terrible as I believed it to be.  Given where his eyes were resting at the moment, we'll take this with the proverbial you-know-what, but I've learned two things from this episode: (1) when attending a Varsity-team sort of party, stick to what you know (sundresses for my casual summery events) and run the undergarments/bright lights test 1st; and (2) confidence (whether real or imaginary) and Grey Goose (only real) goes a long way.

The Texas Chronicles: The Only Woman in the Room

Should you find yourself in a business meeting with a certain brand of Texas good ol' boy, as I did again today, you may want to be conversationally fluent in the following:

1. Hunting (or "huntin'", more often)
2. Fishin'
3. College Football
4. Women

You should also be aware that he - he - who speaks loudest and longest wins the corporate battle.  And never get up to go relieve yourself mid-meeting, lest the so-called battle be won while you're out of the room.

Given that I'm neither a hunter nor a quarterback, I've been slow to pick up on the  business lingo of this particular breed - not to mention their super-human restroom resistance. I confess that I'm innately, subconsciously more silent around their ilk.  I'm forced to remind myself never to apologize and to speak up.  I haven't quite figured out how I'm to fit into this world yet, or frankly, if I'm entirely welcome in it.

Before you start cowering under your seats, fearful of a Pretty Feminist rant, let me reassure you - I bear absolutely no ill will towards the great majority of these men.*  I've now worked for and amongst them for a few years.  You could argue that I even married a kinda sorta version of them.  More often than not, I just occasionally feel as if I'm a tourist in a delightful, strange land, lacking only a translator (and a hunting rifle).   

*And certainly not men in general.  Quite the fan.  I'm not questioning the gender that brought us Beckham.

Yes, there is the increasingly rare subspecies of this native breed who questions why a Young Lady Such as Myself is in a corporate boardroom.  Who mistake me for the receptionist.  I've had a recruiter reassure me that I needn't worry about my job prospects, since I will be "quitting my job to have a family soon";  in actual fact, I can think of no better reason why I would quit a job, but . . . you wouldn't hear this from a California recruiter, put it that way. 

Today was a special sort of Good Ol' Boy day, because there was actually another woman sitting there in the boardroom.  I don't at all mean to say that merely because she was a woman, all was right with the world.  

Rather, I was curious to see what happened - "Would the pre-business dialogue change?", I pondered.  As it happens, the chat went on exactly as it usually does, covering the required Texas topics before digging into the deal.  Only one of the principals talked around me.

I wonder, as I imagine professional women do everywhere, whether that isn't close to the ideal result; that we all just be treated as equally interested and capable.  I left the meeting relatively happy, hopeful, and wondering.  If we can get just a few more women in the room, maybe we can add "Nordstrom" to the pre-business conversation . . . 

From Newlywed to Nobody?

"What's he looking at? Did that strumpet Angelina just walk in? Am I that boring?  Did I accidentally start talking about my new purse again?  Why won't he make eye contact with me?"

It happened again last Friday night, as it has with increasing frequency since my marriage.  While out for dinner & drinks with the Anonymous Husband & a few of his acquaintances, I noticed that some of the male & single amongst them largely talked around me.  They briefly acknowledged me, then swiftly ignored me as they resumed scanning the room & constantly checking their Blackberries for someone more interesting.*  Again.  

*Psst, single men - the single ladies don't much care for the Blackberry move either. 

Before I give you the wrong impression, I hasten to add - I'm hastening so fast, I'm risking death by my perilous espadrille wedges** here -  that this has nothing to do with my seeking out attention from any man but my own personal, perfectly wonderful AH.  Sure, we ladies all generally appreciate - um - appreciation; however, that isn't the issue here.

**Banana Republic shoes of awesomeness.  Trust me.

No, what I object to is my tidily being filed away in the "Wife of ___" social cubbyhole, a woman to be respected by men to whom I am not married (good!), but also marginalized as someone not worth tossing more than a pleasantry or two prior to resuming The Search (not good!).  I absolutely don't deny them The Search itself - been there, married that*** - but merely the skipping of the formalities that indicate I am still someone worthy of small-talk.  Plus, straight men of the world, who better to act as your wing-woman than a wildly attractive yet happily married lady?

***Remember how the AH & I met in a bar?  But how it was classy in our case because friends introduced us?  Yeah.

Do I have just enough perspective to realize that this is a vastly less important problem than, say, the North Korean nuclear issue or the (hopeful) undercover operation to save that "Kate is Eight and Hates Her Husband" lady from her own hellacious hairdo?  Yes.  Yes, I do.  However, it's simply, you know, rude.   We do like our manners here at the Pretty, particularly when I'm the one doing the etiquette enforcing.

I hope this doesn't sound bitter;  on the contrary, the realist in me is grateful for these sorts of karmic kindnesses along the "Ohmigod, I'm not in my 20s anymore!" path.  After all, this is yet another reminder that I am slowly and voluntarily emerging from the bar-hopping, twenty-something scene****.  I'm also told by my mommy friends that this "Wife of ___" business will seamlessly morph with the advent of kidlets into "Mom of ___". Perhaps this gradual transition into the next "of____", as ushered in by the gin-swilling singletons of Texas, is actually nature's kind way of preparing me for total social identity annihilation. 

****Into what - the trashy reality TV watching scene?  

Gentlemen of the Great State, until that next "of____" comes, perhaps we can arrive at a detente of sorts.  On our next social adventure, why don't you briefly remember to ask me how my week & pretend to look interested in same before resuming The Search, in exchange for which I will resist dunking your Blackberry into your Shiner beer?  Deal? 

We Need a Word for This

Front, back, side-to-side.  

Any woman who has walked into a bar or, infinitely worse, a junior high dance* knows the simultaneous excitement and dread of walking into a crowded room and encountering The Look. You know the one, and it isn't Jake Ryan catching your eye from across the gym, in hopes you'll slow dance at a painfully awkward arm's distance from him.

*Why, why didn't we just band together and end these?  Adding this to my Omnimedia Takeover Agenda.

No, it is us women who are both instigator and victim of The Look, defined as the non-amorous, flagrantly competitive head-to-toe evaluation of another woman upon said woman's entrance into a social event.  And as I've rounded the bend into my thirties, The Look I've observed, regardless of American city, goes something along these lines:

- Face

- Shoes

- Engagement/Wedding Ring

- Handbag

Since our primary goal here is being Prettier Than Everyone Else, I generally take The Look as a skewed sort of compliment;  however, why the competitive thing in the first place?  Is my Marc by Marc handbag, seductive as it may be, actually going to lure your oil heir husband away, as one recent attendee at a charity event *ahem* seemed to be implying with her vicious stares?**

**While I was standing next to my own Anonymous Husband, I might add.  

Ladies and gentlemen (man? Any of you out there?), is this a universal thing, or merely a byproduct of the admittedly yuppie-prone, heterosexual-prone circles in which I often find myself?  If The Look varies in your town or crowd, what is your regional variation?

Cue the Fuzzy Oprah Lighting . . .

Excited excited excited, scared scared, excited excited excited, scared scared . . .

I've outed myself here as a Recovering Introvert, so regular readers will recognize the above thought process as my usual social interaction mindset when meeting new people.  I'm almost entirely thrilled at the prospect of doing so & do generally enjoy myself once I'm out, but oh, that 1% . . . it's already back on the Pretty HQ couch, eager to dive into my "Real Housewives" archive  a new book or blog or some other solitary, safe pursuit.

So tonight I salute, um, myself, for not only going to a happy hour full of new and cute and fun ladies, but actually organizing it myself.  Not to brag or anything - oh, nevermind, why wouldn't I, I'm tremendous and full of merlot - but I'm kinda proud of it.  And relieved to find a group of women also looking for friends and things to do here.  Not precisely a novel concept, I realize, but one I tend to forget during this number:

Excited excited excited, scared scared, excited excited excited, scared scared.

PS - Pets, how long can I milk this "new girl in town" act?  I'm coming up on one year, so maybe one more? Two more?  Help a newbie out here . . . 

This Wouldn't Have Happened If I Were Properly Southern, Would It?

Got in a car wreck this morning . . .

Guy ran a red light, at rush-hour, at a busy intersection.

Then I mentally ran through the Hallelujah chorus of happy* since the other driver and I (1) walked away (2) seemingly unharmed, give or take some sore muscles and splintered nerves.
*I'm Episcopalian, so my version of this is entirely off-key and awkwardly whispered, with a sprinkling of gin over the chorus.

So is it very wrong of me that my first thought thereafter, as I stood quivering and slightly wild-eyed, surrounded by Austin's gallant emergency services heroes, was not about the apparent demise of my beloved Prettymobile (although = SUCKAGE), but:




. . . .



"AWESOME, this would be the day I leave the house without doing my hair or makeup!"

PS - If you're wondering whether this puts an end to yesterday's karmic taunting, well -um - yes. For now. Hmmph.

Tackling Monday, Texas Style

Why hello, Monday - you magnificent beast, you! Despite your very inherent Mondayness, it so happens that I'm having an excessively good day. Feeling Blessed with a capital "B". Happy, even. Before you and my readers become seriously alarmed - and rightly so - not to worry. Snark aside, I have friends, bloggy and otherwise, who could most seriously use an improved week. So perhaps you could let Tuesday know, like, to lighten up a bit on them. And solve this recession and create a few jobs. Deal?

Speaking of happy - brace yourself for the sweeping transition here - my brazenly challenging Monday to this karmic arm-wrestle is partially motivated by one of my favorite Christmas presents in recent memory, which I re-discovered tonight while rumbling around the kitchen (and creating run-on sentences, apparently):

The masking tape (covering the Pretty name) adds a delicately feminine touch, don't you think? It's like having my very own Texas family crest, but with bonus rum-and-coke features.

As native Texans and Southern types might recognize, this is an example of the all-important personalized party cup ("PPC"). Call this California girl naive, but upon walking into my first Texas wedding shower, filled as it was with cut-crystal and expensive finger foods and The Right Sort Of People, I wasn't sure what to make of the thoughtfully personalized, yet - you know - styrofoam** PPCs. Or how to fraudulently pass as The Right Sort Of People, but that's a different problem for another day.
*We have parties back home, naturally, but they usually involve plastics of an entirely different sort.
**Or reusable plastic - it's OK, Austin PC Police!

However, as the Anonymous Husband and I attended subsequent social events, I grew to appreciate the PPCs - to covet a set of my very own, actually. These came to strike me as yet another example of how Texans, to wildly overgeneralize, seem to just get parties right. Enter friends M, who included their own darling PPCs in their wedding out-of-towners' baskets, only to gift the AH and I with our very own set one year later.

So to you, Monday, I raise my very special PPC to you - as opposed to the customary daintily feminine yet emphatic gesture - and toast Texas and good friends with an equally good sense of humor. Try anything funny, however, and I'll start talking about those custom Koozies I had made for the AH's 30th birthday . . .

The Grace Experiment, Part 2

This is my weekly half-hearted attempt to set aside the snarkitude & list 5 things for which I'm grateful, with the happy yet unintended consequence of annoying blog friends like The Coconut Diaries.

1. Receiving a completely rad surprise present from a good friend. If I told you this gift had to do with my teenage vampire issues, you would probably stop reading and immediately delete me from your Google Reader, so this had absolutely nothing to do with that. Um.

2. Stumbling upon my excuse to post weekly HRH Pug photos, in blatantly derivative manner of those famous bloggers who regularly pull this sort of Hallmark move:

You're witnessing a daily ritual here at Pretty HQ, in which the HRH Pug embarks on an exhaustive search for the ideal rawhide hiding spot. Please note the somber, stress-filled expression in his buggy eyes. This is a deeply serious business.

3. Spending the weekend with the Anonymous Husband - given his lawyerly line o' work, I don't take this for granted - who voluntarily accompanied me on an emergency Anthro* shopping expedition and only whined once.
*The dress of impossible cuteness? So cute. So mine.

4. American holidays primarily dedicated to overeating and only tangentially related to football, particularly those followed by special episodes of "The Office" (wish you were here to watch, Shabby Princess!)

5. Kerbey Lane queso, and my new hometown in which this delectable foodstuff can be located.

The Texas Chronicles: Deep Fried Cookie Dough

One of the many things I so adore about Texas, and the South in general (or Southwest, or South-Lite, or the Republic of Texas, or whatever region this is) , is the "more is more" attitude. Unfortunately I don't mean more in the sense of "more Aqua Net to support big hair" or "more ten gallon hats", as I'd originally looked forward to, nor do I use it as it would be interpreted back home i.e. "more designer labels such that people know how insanely wealthy I am/wish to appear."

No, what these fine people do well is work the heck out of all things bright and beautiful. Cheese (ie, queso), barbeque, Willie Nelson, Frito pie, the Texas Stop Sign . . . the basics are here and, at the risk of overgeneralizing, people enjoy them in big, unapologetic fashion. This is not to say that there's some Texas patent on joy or fried foods (assuming you recognize a difference between those two); just that there seems to be a heightened sense of fun about things here. And in my days of homesickness - and I do have them from time to time - this ability to enjoy both the high and low, the room for the ridiculous reminds me I might just have found a good home.*

(credit: The Texas Stop Sign, courtesy of Patrick Dentler @ Flickr)

If you're noticing a general food theme here - well, you'd be right. Have I mentioned how much I like to eat? A whole lot? If you're one of those types who occasionally forgets a meal, congratulations - I'd like to visit your exotic land sometime, but you'll have to send detailed directions and a GPS since I possess no earthly idea of how to get there. Since I am incredibly vain and all, I do usually watch what I eat and engage in regular bouts of Hateful Exercise blah blah blah as part of my Prettier Than Everyone Else scheming. But on weekends and special occasions, such as this weekend, look out . . .

As any current or former Texans know, this weekend is the big Texas-Oklahoma game, held in Dallas at the insanely early hour of 11 am. Thus the AH and I join the throngs of football fans making the long drive up today. To some people, at the end of this yellow brick freeway (which is painting I-35 in the most wildly optimistic, kindest terms possible) lay college football; to me - my jackpot is the promise of pre-game Texas State Fair food corn dogs and fried foods beyond my imagination (and mimosas, of course, but that's just implied in any game kicking off before 5 pm). Because these State Fair people just can't leave well enough alone - I define "well enough" as "chocolate chip cookie dough" - and free from their deep fryers, and I salute them for it. Having spent no small amount of time during last year's tailgate fruitlessly looking for the Fried Guacamole (??) booth, this year I shall be relentless in my tailgate pursuit of the Deep Fried Cookie Dough:

(credit: Dallas Morning News)

I can't personally imagine any improvement on Heaven's Little Miracle (eg, chocolate chip cookie dough), but I am seeking opportunities to research any such claims. Like, immediately.

And did I mention the people watching? This always ranks high among the reasons I so enjoy a good tailgate, but this particular game must be given extra credit on the viewing pleasure scale, and I am not just saying this because the Pretty Boy of college football himself, Kirk Herbstreit, will be on the premises. Not to judge a book by its proverbial cover - oh, who am I kidding, I live to do that - but with just a brief glance at the Texas fans versus the Oklahoma fans, you can tell the two aren't exactly filed in the same section of the library, so to speak. Despite their obvious differences, however, the inexplicable hatred (at least through a Californian's eyes; I know this sort of thing is inherently understood in these parts) the two have for one another brings everyone together, and isn't that just the sort of Kumbayah moment we can all enjoy?

(credit: Flickr)

*Speaking of things we can all enjoy, I bring you Pretty HQ's Official Game Day Gnome, part of a growing special occasion statuary collection. Remember what I said about living in a state where a girl can let her weird hang out?

Because I shall soon commence stuffing my face in a perhaps unladylike fashion - not that I would ever actually do that, but just saying - I'll sign off now and wish you all a splendiferous, fried-food-laden weekend as well.

Smootches,

Of Bumpers and Boasting - The Texas Chronicles Cont'd

I think it was about the 30th Prius that did it. As I sat in traffic tonight, running an customary inexcusably poor 10 minutes late to a meeting, I spied what I suspect is standard mode of transport in many liberal-leaning parts of the country - a shiny new hybrid, bedecked with the obligatory Mac-Obama-Tibet-offbeat-music-store bumper stickers - except in this & its predecessors' cases, there was what I now recognize as a Texas twist. This car was veritably bending over backwards to send rainbows and unicorns and non-carcinogenic Valentine hearts of love to everyone everywhere - except for those not fortunate enough to live here in the Great State. Because this Prius' bumper, like no small number of other cars on the road, proudly displayed this:



Fun, no? To this California girl, it is such a good thing, as Our Martha might say, and ridiculously entertaining to boot. In my homeland, natives will confess to you within 5 minutes of meeting exactly where they last had a little Bo (as in "-tox"), and foist the name and number of their cosmetic dermatologist on you, but wouldn't dream of flying a California flag in front of his or her home. Or know what the California flag actually looks like, for that matter:

Because I just had to, lovelies. You're welcome, Gubernator Schwarzenegger.

If asked what the California state bird is, your average California-ette would smartly reply "Halle Berry" before quickly turning back to her no-sugar decaf iced mocha blended and inspecting her manicure. This isn't to say we aren't full of pride - as many angry folks on the interwebs have documented before us, we are convinced we hail from one very sparkly, special place - we just tend to be quietly smug about it - until we leave state lines, that is. Apparently it's far more fun moaning about how much better home is and driving up real estate prices while "out of pocket", as it were . . .

But back to The Great State . . . here's my choice for the Prettymobile, which we might display for fun if it weren't so very likely to cause our Left Coast loved ones to convulse:


Indeed! And the fun doesn't stop here. Should you feel your home is lacking a certain something, might I suggest a bronze Lone Star:

(credit: Lane Metal Works)

Does this one get double-secret bonus points for having TWO Texas references?

For any former, current, and future Texans, this is all meant in admiration and good fun. As delighted as I am to be from my fair home state, and I do visit home as often as reasonably possible, I too got here as fast as I could.

Melt-Proof Makeup: Texas Chronicles Cont'd

Important, Secret Note to Readers: We're feeling rather Un-Prettily under the weather at the moment, and as a result might be blogging under the influence of both DayQuil and ice cream. So please forgive us if the below makes as little sense as that show "Private Practice" or the host of the VMAs the other night. Thank you & smootches.
************************************************************************************

We've experienced many cultural delights in our move to Texas - that Sonic has a secret patent on fountain-drink ice perfection, that cheese really does add to any and every meal - but one we didn't see coming was the need to change up our makeup routine.

This isn't to say that everyone around us is wearing more makeup than we are; in fact, chief amongst our disappointments in moving to The Great State, second only to the general lack of High Hair, is the absence of Tammy Faye-worthy spackle. Rather, what we've found is that the type of makeup necessarily changes thanks to the glorious heat for six months of the year.

We realize this is no newsflash to the Belles amongst you, but the Welcome Wagon flat forgot to include this info in our personal fruit basket. It took just one week of 100 degree temperatures, in which our scantily-made-up face immediately started to, uh, "Glisten" like nothing so much as one of those Texas oilfields you hear so much about. We quickly discerned that in order to continue our attempts to look Prettier Than Everyone Else, more serious makeup was in order.

So although we're absolutely no makeup experts or even particularly a fan of the stuff - we go to Beauty Snob and Slynnro for that level of advice - we did want to share a few new finds that have withstood our summertime & early fall Texas trials, given that the heat here shows no signs of easing up.

Another disclaimer - it is our Official Pretty Stance that we look like this (ie, Grace Kelly avatar) naturally, and when asked in person, we're quite likely to lie sweetly, bat our (suspiciously lush) eyelashes demurely, and declare that we just dab the occasional chapstick and moisturizer on. If we're feeling honest, however, here is how we actually try to do that No Makeup Look on our, ahem, possibly fair, freckly, combination skin. Note that no animals were harmed in the testing of this makeup, just our wallets in some cases:

(credit: Neutrogena)

If you're a tinted moisturizer type during the warm months like little ol' me, this is great. About $30 less than the gold standard Laura Mercier, yet better coverage. This is what we wear during the work week & whenever we've thrown in the towel on fighting the Glistening ie everyday.

(credit: Neiman Marcus)

Bobbi Brown Oil-Free Even Finish Compact Foundation, for when we feel like Putting Our Faces On. This is probably medium-coverage level at best, so not for those of you who want maximum spackle-age.

(credit: Neiman Marcus)

Bobbi Brown Creamy Concealer Kit. Objects in real life not as neon-orange as they appear here. The powder stuff underneath is particularly worthy.

(credit: Maybelline)

Maybelline Define-a-Lash mascara, also in waterproof when the situation demands.
It's important to just know how severely eyelash impaired we are. Years, YEARS!!! have been devoted to the study and enhancement of same. So dire is the situation, we had to marry someone with thick, languid lashes himself to ensure the happiness of our future progeny.

So it's only barely an exaggeration to say we've done extensive research on this one vs. the expensive big boys like Diorshow, and we keep coming back to this one.* *Important note: this must be used in conjunction with the legendary Shu Uemura eyelash curler.

(credit: Neiman Marcus)

The new, sparkly Bobbi Brown Limited-Edition, Shimmering Nudes palate. We read about this first at Beauty Snob, and, only after we stopped giggling like a 13-year-old boy at the name, ordered it immediately. This stuff survived a long tailgate - a miserably hot, humid, occasional downpour- filled tailgate - and is also subtle enough to wear to work.

(credit: Clarins)

Because you can take the girl out of Southern California, but you can't talk her out of turning herself orange from May-September . . . but seriously, when it comes to self-tanner for the face, we go with this department-store stuff. Works instantly, smells yummy - particularly impressive for self-tanner - and actually lasts a few days.
(credit: Beauty Counter Direct)

We own various & sundry variations on the exact same pink lip gloss, so many that it would bore you to tears to hear about it, but we continue to come back to Juicy Tubes. And attract orbiting spaceships and flies along the way with our shine, but - more is more in our (shiny, subtly pink) book.

Anyone else out there with some good warm weather makeup tips?

The Texas Chronicles, Vol. McNay Art Museum

In which I again try to talk about something other than shopping or eating . . .

So a few days ago, while waiting on the Houston runway willing the plane to take off already, I eagerly tore into the latest "Southern Accents", which I recommend you go buy immediately if for no reason other than to clasp eyes on the drool-worthy Pretty Houses and the fabulous farm that Granny Smith Green recently visited.

However, what truly caught my attention was the feature about the McNay Art Museum in San Antonio, an exceptional, if small, collection located in a striking Spanish Revival home on a hill. As you walk through the museum, you feel as if you're looking at carefully selected art in a friend's (very nice) living room. Many brides, including this former one, take their bridal portraits around the carefully manicured grounds here as well; Californians, please leave me a note if you need help translating this wonderful Southern tradition.

But back to me, my favorite subject- the McNay is also where the Anonymous Husband and I had our wedding reception. As an art lover - particularly art that enhances one's wedding reception - it was a unique pleasure having the best party of my life here:

(credit: McNay Docents)

The McNay is known in Texas for its modern collection, particularly its sculpture, but it also has some of the late nineteenth - early twentieth century works I love and wish I had studied more of in undergrad, including van Gogh and Degas.

Should you find yourself in San Antonio, in addition to checking out the Riverwalk and other tourist areas, give an hour or so to visit the McNay. As the magazine quite accurately notes, this is in a lovely neighborhood with plenty of good restaurants, quietly beautiful homes, and shop- . . . . um, you know, the "S word" from which we're semi-retired.

The Texas Chronicles, vol. "The Higher the Hair . . . "

. . . the closer to God," or so the saying goes.

So over my lunch hour today, in the small town outside of Austin where I work, I pull into a mailing center to drop off a business letter. I expect to see the usual, chemically enhanced employee staring back at me sullenly, when lo . . . what light through yonder postal service breaks? It is the Ginormous, Glittering Banjo Necklace, and I am the surprised one.

(imagine more rhinestones - I mean everywhere - and a banjo the size of a housecat v. the guitar)

Attached to this eye-searing bauble- which, I kid you not, was fully encrusted with rhinestones and the size of a tangerine - was a woman of indeterminate middle age, thanks to her skin being leathered to a crisp, alligator handbag brown. Her neon pink tank top and bedazzled bangle bracelets (the sort you and I had and loved circa 1986) only served to accentuate her teased, frosted, Crystal-Gayle length mane. I stood there for a moment, FedEx clutched in hand, transfixed by her sparkleocity and mammoth coif. Finally, I forced myself to leave my envelope at the counter and hurried back to my admittedly non-sparkly car.

I don' t want to convey the wrong idea about Texans; sadly, the vast majority here are not running around clad in sequined musical instruments.* That I see the genuine, quirky, bedazzled article every so often, however, is just part of why I enjoy living in The Great State.

*Unless they are from South Austin and doing so as part of an ironic political statement.

A Narrow Slice of Pretty

For more on the wryly funny, yet warmly written essays front, I recently discovered and recommend Prudence Mackintosh's "Just as We Were: A Narrow Slice of Texas Womanood":

[credit: www.alibris.com]

It's a bit difficult to find nowadays, but worth the effort, particularly for us Yankee types (assuming southern California qualifies - we could just be Weird, Left Coast types or something) attempting to understand certain Texas / Southern mysteries like Why It's Really Important To Certain Types of People Where Your Children Attend Summer Camp.

As a fun side note, I recently wrote the author a fan email, and received a charming response back!

The Texas Chronicles, Vol. I

For my southern California brethren back home, as well as any of those who haven't experienced the Great State Of yourself, here's the first in a series of cultural updates.

So I'll see your namby-pamby California Santa Ana winds & 80 degree "hot" temperatures, and raise you . . . 104 DEGREES:


[that's not a typo]

BUT . . . in the Great State's defense, we have cupcakes here in the capitol city:

[credit:www.heycupcake.com]

You just don't see red velvet deliciousness (another culinary plus to being in the South, or South-adjacent depending on who you ask) via an Airstream back home. If I can't be cool - I'm speaking of the temperature vs. state of being here - I may as well be pleasantly plump.